Sadist's Game
by Valar Morghulis
Summary: For centuries they have called him the Sadist. But where did it begin? What could Daemon do that would still be remembered centuries afterwards, that would seal his reputation as the most feared Warlord Prince alive?
1. Chapter 1

The first chapter in a story exploring exactly how Daemon acquired the nickname "The Sadist." We are, of course, assuming it is more than a bad pun on his last name (believe me, I know all about those).

Thanks to Min Daae for betaing this first chapter.

Note: this is just the beginning - it is leading into much more sadistic events...

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Daemon curved his lips in a mirthless grin as he spun with the dance on the polished marble floor of Dorothea's palace. The Rose-jeweled witch in his arms purred with delight, captivated by his musky scent and muscular body. It wasn't her, of course, that made him smile – in fact, none of the warlords or witches at this court could hold his attention for long. An Eyrian warlord prince, on the other hand…

Daemon hadn't seen Lucivar for more than fifty years but his brother hadn't changed. He watched as the Eyrian glided along the dance floor with his wings half-extended to create a small space around him and his partner. Daemon spared her a glance – a small witch bearing an Opal jewel, with dark hair and delicate features on a face that was turning heads in a room crowded with beautiful women. Lucky Lucivar. It was always the ugly, weak ones who enjoyed his pain the most, who used the whip and the ring and the safframate until he couldn't stand any longer, until he couldn't even crawl to their feet to beg for mercy. Maybe they were compensating for something.

Then again, no-one could find any complaint with Dorothea's appearance, and she…she was the worst of them all. He could see her now, sitting on the high wooden chair at the front of the hall, smiling in pleasure as she patted the head of one of her 'toys.' That could have been him – in fact, that had been him, only a few hundred years back.

Daemon growled deep in his throat and looked aside to see the whirling pattern of the dance change to a slow, steady beat. He stood straight and rocked the witch in his arms, pressing her head into his shoulder as her body curved into his. He smiled. He was going to enjoy teaching this one exactly why having him was a punishment, not a reward. The closer they get, the harder they fall – and Daemon was an expert at making the fall as hard as possible.

"Bastard."

The voice came from behind him. Daemon didn't turn as he answered, "Prick."

"Nice bit of meat you've got there."

"Not half as good as yours."

The witch half-heartedly pulled away from him, blinking confusedly. "Dae-" He pressed a finger to her lips, sensing Lucivar strolling towards his back.

"Mine?" Lucivar enquired. "Mine isn't pretty enough to be a common whore, let alone a warlord's…friend."

"Your opinion seems to differ from everyone else in the room, Prick. Can't you see the heads turning? And yet none are looking my way. It saddens me to say it, but it seems to me that my companion here has the face of a horse."

"On the contrary, Bastard, the lovely lady in your arms is easily the prettiest in the room."

Daemon sighed theatrically. "It seems, Prick, that you're not going to back down from your stubborn stance. Why don't we ask an unbiased observer?" He swiveled to face Lucivar for the first time, but addressed his words to the woman standing next to his brother. "Would you agree, darling, that you are exceptionally beautiful, and that my companion is uglier than a horse's arse?"

Daemon wasn't sure whether the witch was too dumb to sense the hidden undercurrents of their conversation or was smart enough to see the battle lines and pick the winning side. It didn't really matter, though. Either way, she was still too stupid to recognise the little game he and Lucivar were playing, and the simple fact that it was, for them, a game. "I couldn't agree more," the Opal witch said, smiling at Daemon. He returned the smile. "There, Prick. See?"

Lucivar looked faintly amused. "Bastard, this slut on my arm is merely jealous. If you want a truly unbiased observer…" He raised his voice to project over the music. "Dorothea!"

Activity on the dance floor stopped abruptly. Suddenly, they were the focus of all attention.

Dorothea looked up languidly. "You forget your place…slave."

Lucivar smiled. "I merely wished for you to judge these two…talented…witches. Which, do you think, is the most beautiful?"

Dorothea looked at him with narrowed eyes. Daemon could almost see her casting her mind back, recalling the last time he and Lucivar had been brought to the same court, and what had happened then. It had taken months for the rubble to be cleared, and decades to reform the valuable alliances shattered by the deaths of influential warlords. What short memories these Blood had.

Dorothea had obviously decided that he and Lucivar wouldn't dare cause any trouble. The pain she had given them last time wouldn't – couldn't – be easily forgotten. "I simply cannot decide," she said. "Does it really matter?"

"Of course," Daemon said sweetly. "Here, Prick. We'll settle this the old-fashioned way." He thrust his Rose-bearing witch towards Lucivar at the same time his brother shoved the Opal witch towards him. "Last one standing wins." Daemon smiled at Dorothea, and the blast of pain that came through the Ring of Obedience was just a moment too late to stop him unleashing a burst from his Red jewel, not at Dorothea – the Ring made sure he couldn't harm her – but at the ceiling above her, at the same time as Lucivar collapsed the floor underneath her chair. That should distract her long enough for the brothers to cause real damage to her fragile court – never mind the consequences.

Because what Dorothea had forgotten, what all her court had forgotten, was that when they were together, Daemon and Lucivar were not just fighting to inflict pain on those who had tormented them for so long. They were not just fighting for the sake of fighting, or to keep hold of the futile hope that they might, someday, break free.

They were playing a game. And neither of them intended to lose.

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_Just a few reviews would make me insanely happy all day._


	2. Chapter 2

Words cannot express how sorry I am to leave you guys hanging for so long. Words can probably also not express how grateful am to everyone who reviewed. Keep up the good work! (and I'll try to keep up mine).

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_Crack!_

Lucivar shuddered as the whip broke open his skin, adding to the streams of blood running down his back. Shuddered and, with a phenomenal effort, kept his mouth closed in a tight grimace. He wouldn't cry out. Wouldn't scream. Wouldn't cry out. Wouldn't cry. _Not in front of Daemon._

_Crack!f_

Not that he could see the Bastard. But the black-jeweled aura centered only meters away and pulsating with fury was impossible to miss. Lucivar could only imagine one thing that could arouse Daemon's fury to that extent, and he realized with a sudden chill exactly how Dorothea would go about it. The Bastard would be watching his only friend from another room, bound, half-delirious, helpless while Dorothea murmured in his ear, whispers placing the blame for the drugging, and the whipping, and the other tortures that Lucivar had been going through for two days. _It's_ _your fault_. Dropping guilt like a boulder…right on Daemon's shoulders.

_Crack!_

Her manipulations were an old game for the pair of them. Malice, hinted; subtle tensions and suggestions of betrayal, insinuations of duplicity. Usually they were easy enough to spot, and almost as simple to laugh off – it was obvious what the Priestess was doing. She wanted to separate them, turn one against the other, break their bond. Break their souls.

_Crack!_

But this approach was new, and frightening. Using their strengths against them. Using their friendship as a tool to undermine Daemon's very sanity. Dorothea was learning, and that knowledge would always be dangerous for her enemies.

Yet even that wasn't what scared Lucivar most. He could feel the real danger in the air, in his Ebon-gray jewels – and in the rippling waves of Black power that throbbed incessantly.

Daemon _never_ got this angry.

He was the ice-cold one, the clinical, emotionless killer. Torturing, being tortured, murdering, having his soul slowly murdered: and never, ever, _ever, _losing control. Because down that path lay madness.

Yet now…now, Daemon had succumbed. He'd held on for so, so long. He'd been the rock that anchored both of them. Lucivar couldn't believe it. Did Dorothea even guess how effective her actions were? Did she understand the total destruction that she could drive Daemon to unleash? Because, if she did, it would be sheer madness to continue.

Lucivar registered numbly that the whipping had stopped. Was it…was it over? He lifted his head as footsteps sounded in front of him. A witch…with a vial…of _sapphramate._

Hands grabbed his jaws from behind, holding them open even as Lucivar uttered a wordless, bestial scream of rage. No use, no use; the _sapphramate_ went into his mouth, taking effect after only a few seconds. He could feel every cut, every bruise; every current of air that brushed against his skin, every beam of light that struck his body.

The whipping resumed after a minute.

And, like a tidal wave, the Bastard's anger grew. And grew. And grew.

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Hours later, Lucivar lay in his cell, shivering. Not because of the pain; he'd had worse before, though barely. It was the knowledge that hurt deepest: the knowledge that his only companion, his sole friend and entire family (oh, _Daemon) _was falling. Falling, needing help desperately, needing a hand to bring him back up into life and hope and that cruel sort of world-weary cynicism that pervaded his every action, but was better than anger, better than blind rage.

And Lucivar was _helpless. _He couldn't return the aid that Daemon had so freely given centuries before. No, all he could do was sit, and tremble, knowing that far from being Daemon's salvation, he was the cause of the pain. The cause of the anger that would so certainly be his friend's demise.

_Down that path lies madness._

And who should know better? Lucivar, the Eyrian, the warrior, the slave who fought and fought and never gave up fighting. He had burned with hatred; taking every opportunity to lose himself in the all-consuming fire of destruction.

He'd never remembered what happened, during those spells. Memories blank when he woke, lying on the floor, bodies strewn around. He'd always managed to persuade himself that the deaths were deserved, the bodies all belonging to Dorothea's court, the departure of their souls making the world a better place. The part of him that asked the hard questions – _"Why would Dorothea allow the deaths of her followers? If he was the hand of justice, why did the bodies lie so…randomly? – _was buried beneath the unconscious desire _not to know. _For him, the only evidence lay in the horrified eyes of anyone and everyone he saw in the street – yet those eyes were always quickly averted, and he, in his foolish pride, had thought it was merely a mark of respect.

Then, one day, he woke with the severed head of a little girl by his side. And, for the first time, he'd _remembered._

Alone in his cell, Lucivar clutched his head in his hands and moaned. The memories...hadn't faded with time. And Lucivar suddenly realised two things.

One. When Daemon unleashed his rage, no force in the Realm would be able to stop him.

And two, a thought that sent a shiver up Lucivar's spine. Dorothea knew _exactly_ what she was doing...


	3. Chapter 3

Hello! Well, a slightly quicker update this time; if I have sacrificed quality for speed please let me know, and I'll give it a bit of a facelift. I also may have gotten some things wrong; feel very free to correct me. Apart from that...review! And enjoy!

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The carriage rattled and clattered along the dusty road. It was a warm day; the sun was burning in the sky; the still air wasn't cooled by the breezes normal in this territory.

Inside the carriage, ice was forming.

Astic Denthrall was sitting next to the coachman – as far away from the closed carriage's sole occupant as he could be – and he _still _felt cold. His Jewels weren't helping – neither his birthright Green nor his descended Grey could ward the chill from his bones.

Dammit, this shouldn't be happening!

It had been a long time since Astic had faced a Blood male superior to him, either in power or status. He was easily the strongest in his territory; and, as his Queen's Master of the Guard, faced any rival – threat – with her full support behind him – not to mention the added advantage of being a Warlord. So when he'd heard of a new arrival to his court – a gift from Dorothea herself, no less – he'd been wary, but confident that he could deal with any…differences…the two of them might have. There was no reason to be apprehensive over any slave, he'd thought, no matter how powerful his jewels. Especially when he'd realised exactly what that slave's duties – or duty, rather – was going to be.

Daemon Sadif had scared him from the moment they'd met.

At first, arriving with the carriage, he hadn't seen the Warlord Prince – his view was blocked by the crowd of guards, standing uneasily in a ring around a huddled form, their hands on the hilts of their weapons. They had been Astic's first warning. Of course he'd heard of Daemon before – who hadn't – but any rumours that reached them, all the way out here, were bound to be distorted and inflated by distance. He'd been sure that he could handle any_ pleasure slave_. And the Black jewels? Ridiculous – Black jewels had been extinct in the Blood for centuries, if not millenia. And yet…thirty guards, by Astic's count, each wary, each alert, each…wearing a dark jewel!

He must be mistaken. Astic scanned the crowd again, senses alert. Dark opal, sapphire, green, sapphire again, red, grey…every one of them was a powerful warrior in his own right. And every one of them seemed to be scared out of their wits.

The Grey-bearing guard hurried up to the halted carriage. Astic had just time to realise that the man in front of him was a Warlord Prince – a Warlord Prince, sent to guard one prisoner? Impossible! – before the guard was upon him.

"Thank the Darkness, you've come," the Warlord Prince said urgently. "Hurry up and take him away!"

Astic looked down on the man with a frown. "Don't mock me by trying to pretend that you – all of you – couldn't handle one prisoner."

The Warlord Prince stepped back, startled. Then, suddenly, he laughed – a laugh that was both humourless and tinged with hysteria. "I don't need to mock you – your ignorance is managing just fine by itself. And I don't care what you think of me – just load up the prisoner and go. Go!"

Astic descended from the carriage, making sure each step was slow and delibarate. He could feel his temper rising. This band of guards was enough to destroy towns and villages, or even to level a small city. He didn't know what game the Warlord Prince was playing, but this he did know: there was no single person who would be able to stand up to the force in front of him.

That opinion lasted all of ten metres.

The ring of guards had parted to let him in, and to give him his first view of his queen's new…gift. At first the figure huddled on the ground seemed pitiful: knees drawn up to its chest and face downcast abjectly. Astic snorted: _this_ was the Warlord Prince feared throughout Tereille? It wasn't possible. He turned-

-and was falling, falling through a chasm with walls as black as the Mother's womb, a chasm that seemed to have no beginning and no end. Astic screamed in pure shock and terror as he plummeted through the darkness, as he suddenly realised where he was - his inner web, the abyss of Blood.

Pressure filled his head, a roaring of wind in this airless place, a burning fire in a lightless void. With every second that passed, it intensified, until he could hardly think through the skull-crushing pain. As he fell through the darkness, Astic was consumed with mindless fear of the being that could pluck him from his body and send him hurtling helplessly into the void. But then, as the pain swept past him and through him, he suddenly understood what was going to happen to him. He wouldn't have to face the monster known as Daemon after all. At least, he wouldn't be conscious of it – not after the fall broke his mind and threw him into the Twisted Kingdom.

Astic sighed with pure relief.

The pain, though, wasn't going away. It seemed an eternity of agony, always building, pressing, crushing, until it seemed that it couldn't continue a moment longer without destroying him completely. Was this what it was like to be mad - a life full of the mind-destroying agony? Suddenly the Twisted Kingdom didn't seem so appealing. But Astic was helpless as he fell; he couldn't halt himself, he was going to plummet and burn out his mind and wander the roads of madness forever-

A bare metre from the border of insanity, Astic _stopped_.

It was like he'd crashed into an invisible floor - a floor born of Jewels that were pure Black. The impact was incredible – it seemed like every bone in his body had been broken with the landing. He tried to scream, but his mouth would make no sound. He could feel the presence clearly now; a huge power, vaster than he ever could have imagined. It inspected him closely: probing him, scrutinising his mind, stealing his secrets and his soul. _Violating_ him.

And discarding him.

Astic could scream now – and he did, as the power beneath him lifted him as easily as a child would lift an ant. He was flung upwards, reaching the surface in a heartbeat-

-and came to, kneeling on the dusty ground, heaving and retching as hands grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. Astic swayed and would have buckled again without the support of the Grey Warlord Prince. He propped Astic up with one arm while accepting a bottle from another guard with the other.

"Here, open your mouth," the guard instructed, tilting Astic's head up and roughly slopping wine into his face. "Now you know. I don't blame you for before, okay? You couldn't have known until he did it, and he's done it to all of us. Just…like I said, take him away. Quick."

Astic tried to swallow, spluttered, and finally managed to down most of the wine. He pushed the guard away, and managed to stand, although his legs were still shaking. Then, resolutely, he looked across to where Daemon SaDiablo still sat, in the centre of his little court circle. He hadn't moved.

Damn him to the deepest depths of Hell!

As if hearing Astic's thoughts, Daemon slowly raised his head. His eyes fixed and locked on to Astic's. Astic noted numbly that they were a brilliant gold.

Daemon unfolded himself off the ground, strode past Astic as if he wasn't there, and climbed into the carriage.

Astic realised he was shivering.

Now, perched on the front of his carriage, he felt only dread for the future. A few metres away sat the most dangerous man in the Realm – and Astic, helpless to do anything else, was bringing him straight to the one person he had sworn to guard with his life.

The carriage rattled and clattered along the dusty road, with every breath drawing closer to the centre of all Astic held dear - his family, his court, his queen. His Queen. _The_ Queen. The absolute ruler of Dena Nelele.


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